


Prurient Obsessions

by SushiKatt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Thor, Come Eating, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Underwear Kink, Voyeurism, bottom!Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiKatt/pseuds/SushiKatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows Thor is ridiculously hot, but Fandral still feels bad when he can't stop thinking about his best friend in the most improper ways.<br/>He convinces himself that he's going to Thor's chambers to do the right thing, and ends up doing the exact opposite, and also discovering a bit more about Thor than he'd imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prurient Obsessions

**Author's Note:**

> I want to start writing fanfiction and actually posting my work, so I figured I'd start with a simple scene. This is based on a prompt I saw about writing a scene where the character hides in a closet, so I did that. I might post a follow-up to this, but I don't know yet. Enjoy!

It didn’t escape anyone’s notice that Thor was hot. His muscles rippled under sun-kissed skin, golden hair framed his friendly face in a perfect mane of sunshine.  
No, it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that Thor was a perfect specimen.  
How could Fandral be expected not to notice all that perfection just walking around, smiling at him, slapping his shoulder, and calling him ‘ _friend_ ’ and laughing at his jokes? Though, lately, those smiles and laughs had become less frequent. But they were there, and they were torture on Asgard’s finest swordsman, who would’ve killed to feel those lips break into a smile against his own, in the sharing of a fervid kiss.

 

But that would never happen. Fandral knew it, and it did not put out his carnal thoughts, but seemed to be fanning the fire, making him take relief in his imagination since he could not find that relief in reality. But the thoughts came to him at the most inopportune hours of the day, like during the long hours of meetings with old men who had become too tired to be warriors and made themselves important by playing hands to the king. The dust of paper floating in the air easily lulled one’s thoughts elsewhere, like to Thor pinning him down during a training spar, their hips meeting, but instead of Thor pulling his hips back, he rocks them forward, grinds down. Sweat would coat his chest, the kind that smelled sweet and salty at the same time. Fandral would wring his hands free and place them on Thor’s hips, guide them, let him rut like a beast in heat until he came, spilling in his trousers.  
  
Fandral would find himself with an embarrassing hard-on, hidden only by the table, and he’d force himself to listen to the dull, long-winded explanations of the others until his erection went away.  
  
It was worse when Thor would be in the room though. Fandral could control himself better, for a little while, until Thor would do something innocuous, like wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, or suck some crumbs off his thumb, and images of those lips sucking Fandral’s fingers clean instead would rush to the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t always that Fandral could hide his arousal underneath a table, and he would quickly excuse himself, pretending he was going to the bathroom. Hogun wondered if Fandral’s bladder had shrunk lately, but rather he wondered that than spied the real problem. What would Fandral say, exactly? ‘ _I’ve developed a salacious obsession with our prince and future king, and I’m about to come in my trousers_ ’?

Fandral huffed and leaned against a stone column in the long hallway. He took pride in himself over the fact that no matter how aroused or drunken he was, he could still navigate the golden corridors and find his way to his own chambers or one of the bathrooms. But lowering his gaze from the high ceiling, it was clear that he was nowhere near either of those places.  
  
Some meters straight ahead were two massive double-doors. There had been a few occasions when Fandral had let himself in through those doors, to wait for Thor and speak privately with him about delicate matters. Was this not a delicate matter?  
Fandral sighed. Thor would not take offence at his feelings if he confessed them. He was too kind and too understanding, and would let Fandral down gently. Tell him he’s flattered, but he can’t reciprocate, it’s not the right time, something like that. It was the sweet and gentle rejection that made Fandral dread telling Thor. But a rejection would be the most prudent extinguisher of this erotic obsession, and he would be able to move on to his usual pattern of intimate encounters with women and men in dark-lit corners of the halls, and he wouldn’t be imagining he was pressing Thor up against one of those walls.

  
Fandral had left Thor with their friends and plenty of drink, but the prince rarely feasted very late these days. He would be back soon, and Fandral decided he would be waiting for him when he got back, and he would not hesitate to tell him everything. Well, not _everything_ , but the gist of it would do. Enough to make Thor realise Fandral wasn’t just making a drunken pass on him.  
  
Thor’s bad habit of never locking his doors served Fandral well as he slipped inside, and gently shut them behind him.

A fire was lit, spreading a comfortable heat around the room. The servants had made the bed, but one could observe that little else had been touched since that morning. A book laid on a chair, dog-eared in lack of a proper bookmark, the writing desk was a mess of papers, letters that needed Thor’s signing.  
One of Thor’s shirts hung over the back of a chair, and Fandral moved down the steps, crossing the room to pick it up. Cotton from Vanaheim was said to be the softest you could buy, and Fandral would attest to the truth of that after spending but one night on cotton sheets from Vanaheim.

The shirt smelled of Thor’s musk.  
Would Thor notice if Fandral took it? Definitely, he decided as he dropped it back. Perhaps Thor would think the servants had lost it in the laundry, and think nothing of it, but it would be creepy, and impractical to sneak out of there.  
  
He made his way over to the closet then, pulling the oak doors open. Dozens of fancy coats hung on velvet hangers, along several capes, most of them red, but a few black ones too. On the floor of it were more pairs of boots than Fandral had owned his whole life, but there were no objects there whose absence would go unnoticed.  
He looked around the room, spying a dresser and was about to step over to that instead when the disturbing factor of what he was doing made him halt. Was he really sneaking through Thor’s chambers in search of something to _steal_? Was he going to steal his friend’s garments in order to have something that smelled like him, and thus aid in his sordid masturbation?  
  
He let out a heavy breath, “Face it, Fandral. You didn’t come here to be frank with him.”  
  
He probably still had a few minutes, he could just sneak out again and that would be that. No one would be the wiser, and Fandral would find the best prostitute in Asgard and pay for a whole--  
  
Heavy steps echoed behind the large double doors, steps that Fandral had spent these past few months memorizing. There was no time to slip out, but what would Thor say if he found Fandral here without proper reason?  
Panic rising in his chest, blood pumping so hard he could hear it in his temples, he didn’t think as he backed inside the closet, and used his fingernails to pull the door shut.  
It didn’t shut all the way, since he couldn’t twist the handle from this side, so there was a tiny, half-centimetre crack from which he could observe, and pray to the Norns that his heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it felt.

 

In entered Thor, alone. He’d stopped taking women to his bed since his exile to Midgard, so it wasn’t surprising that even after a whole evening of drinking and being surrounded by some of the most gorgeous ladies and barmaids Asgard had to offer, he still retired to his chambers alone.

He tossed his black velvet cape over the chest at the foot of the large bed, and approached the fireplace, crouching down before it. He poked the flames with an iron poker, and tossed another two logs onto it, despite the room being plenty warm already.  
  
Fandral waited. After all that mead, Thor would have to go to the bathroom sooner or later, and Fandral would be able to sneak out, any sounds he made drowned out by running water.  
  
Thor dropped the poker on the floor, and made his way back to the double doors, twisting the handles until the locking ‘ _click_ ’ was heard.

  
Did he know? Had he spied the slightly open closet door when he came in, and was now going to trap his voyeuristic intruder? Had Fandral made a revealing sound, breathed too loudly or moved?  
Tensely, he held his breath, but Thor did not spare the closet a single glance, nor did he make for the bathroom.

Carelessly, Thor kicked off his boots on his way to the bed, and his shirt soon followed them.  
He was more careful with the lacings on his trousers, however. Calloused fingers undid them slowly, like he was imagining someone else doing it.  
  
Fandral swallowed, unable to hold his breath any longer, and letting it out as softly as he could.

This was bad.

Fandral’s cock was stirring again, even though he hadn’t touched it, like it thought it would _finally_ get to play this time, but Fandral’s depravity had limits. He was not some closet voyeur who spied on the future king of Asgard pleasuring himself.  
Except, that’s exactly what he was, since he didn’t reveal his presence to Thor, or even tore his gaze away. Transfixed, he watched Thor push one hand down the front of his trousers, cupping and stroking the plenty handful between his legs.  
A soft sigh left the prince, softer than the grunts and groans he allowed himself in sparring.

Fandral bit down on his lip.

Thor’s hand worked diligently, but it was not enough, and so he shoved his trousers down.

 

 

Thor was wearing panties.

 

Underwear wasn’t really a popular thing on Asgard like on Midgard – there weren’t billboards stapled everywhere, encouraging women to spend their hard-earned dollars on a tiny piece of fabric, but still, Fandral could appreciate the allure of underwear that only covered the most intimate parts of a person’s body.

 

Thor had favoured a pair of black, silky panties, cut low on his hips, and clearly only barely could room Thor’s flaccid cock, for now that he was getting hard, his cock was trying its best to slip out, while the underwear strained to keep it in.  
Thor did not remove the under garment, but threw himself down on the mass of furs that covered the bed, and spread his legs out.  
Sure, Fandral only had half a centimetre to observe Thor through, but he still had a perfect side-view of the prince, running his hands down his chest, battle-worn fingers splaying out over perfectly smooth pectorals before closing in to pinch his nipples. Sensitive nipples, apparently, as Thor moaned right then and pinched harder.

 

Fandral let his hand fall down to his groin, stiff member making a tent in his trousers. Carefully, he ran his fingers over it, moving slowly so as to not make a revealing sound. He was trapped here, and he would never have this opportunity again, so why shouldn’t he make the most of it? Surely, this was a gift from the Norns.

 

Thor’s right hand trailed down, grasping the bulge of his cock through the flimsy fabric of the panties, following the length of it up and down.

The motions were slow at first, clearly teasing himself to get the most out of it, but he’d obviously been waiting to do this all day and self-control was not his strong suit at that very moment. His eyes closed, and he started grinding his hips, not up, but down. Ragged motions, like he was searching for something to grind back into him, like he needed a cock, or at least a fantasy of one pushing back against him.  
It looked ridiculous, this big, strong man grinding against the bed like a needing dog.  
It was also the hottest sight Fandral had ever seen, and he did not dare close his eyes. Beyond the point of caring, he shoved his hand down his trousers, pulling his stiff cock out and pumping it, trying to time it with Thor’s rhythm.  
But Thor’s rhythm kept changing, as he tried new angles to grind in, different grips to stroke himself. He didn’t take his cock out from the underwear, it seemed to be the one thing he didn’t want to do, since he didn’t even take them off so that he could at least finger himself, like he so desperately needed to.  
  
Fandral, however, didn’t have the luxury of stretching out on a bed as he pleasured himself. The closet was more than tall enough to not force him to hunch over, but standing between heavy leather boots and coats, one wrong movement could set off a noise that would ruin _everything_.  


But he didn’t need anything advanced, slow strokes was plenty enough to have him leaking clear beads of precum already.

 

Thor was past the point of precum. His mouth was open in a tiny ‘o’, letting out the most wanton moans Fandral had ever heard a man make. His breaths grew more rapid, and he brought his left hand down, touching his inner thigh before finding a spot that he could squeeze and dig his nails in, in lack of having someone bite the skin.  
At that, his hips stilled, and he gave a few, jerky movements of his hand before breathing out a low, satisfied groan.

  
Cum soaked through the panties, running slowly down onto Thor’s blond little treasure trail while he recovered his breath with heaving gasps.  
  
Fandral’s own orgasm rolled over him, likes waves of electricity on his skin.  
It took all of his remaining willpower not to sink down on his knees. Instead, he slowly opened his eyes and, in the tiny bit of light seeping through the crack of the door, observed his own spend trickling down his fingers.

 

Having nothing to wipe them off on, he carefully raised them up to his lips and licked the worst of the mess away, salty bitterness doing nothing to sober him up from neither the mead nor his lust.  
He looked back to the bed, where Thor still laid spread out on the furs, one arm thrown over his face.  


        

 

The man was still _hard_.  


  
Fandral was never going to be able to leave.


End file.
